


Snaccident

by Obscure_ramblings



Series: Getting Sauced [4]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Coffee, Crack, Fluff and Crack, Food, Gen, Gun Violence, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, M/M, Revenge, Sibling Rivalry, Sleepwalking, don't worry the victim is an inanimate object
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 19:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30060534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obscure_ramblings/pseuds/Obscure_ramblings
Summary: When Booker's latest prank resulted in Joe being impaled on a fireplace poker by the man he loved more than anything else in the world, Nicky started planning revenge.To fulfil his supporting role in the plot, Joe had consumed an obscene amount of coffee, matching Andy cup for cup in a truly heroic effort that saw bright sparkles of colour edging into his peripheral vision. He was wearing his tightest, least comfortable pair of jeans and no socks despite his feet now feeling like they were encased in blocks of ice. He had intentionallynotdone anything when Nicky carefully tucked his favourite pistol under their pillow. He was more awake than he’d ever been in his life.In front of him, Nicky started twitching minutely as he approached a REM cycle. The small movements pumped a trickle of adrenaline through Joe's veins. He was ready.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Getting Sauced [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2185686
Comments: 19
Kudos: 60





	Snaccident

**Author's Note:**

> I know I had marked this series as complete, but then [Hyaluronic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyaluronic) wondered about what a revenge plot would look like, and…this happened. If you’d like to see more, please know that I am (a) so very susceptible to suggestion and (b) apparently in possession of the ability to spin a single offhand comment of support into three new parts of this series, spanning several thousand additional words of complete crack. So feel free to drop your thoughts in the comments!

Booker woke up smiling. He grinned his way through showering and getting dressed, laughed long and loud at the aggrieved look on Nicky’s face when they met in the kitchen as Booker grabbed a sandwich and a bottle of water, and chortled his way out of the house, laptop bag strapped over his shoulder, ready for the day’s online reconnaissance work.

Sliding on his sunglasses, he tucked his hands in his pockets and whistled as he set out on foot, making for the local library. The lack of an internet connection at the safehouse was a minor inconvenience in the scheme of things.

After several frustrating hours of getting virtually nowhere, Booker’s mood had taken a definite downturn. He swore under his breath and packed up his laptop with quick, jerky movements. He walked swiftly back to the safehouse, head ducked down and shoulders hunched as he tried to think of a new avenue of approach that he hadn’t yet exhausted. Reaching the door, he knocked twice in short succession, paused, then knocked again before entering.

Quỳnh was standing on the other side of the portal. Her face was serene, a stark contrast to the long, serrated blade in her hand. “Booker,” she greeted him. The knife disappeared somewhere in the folds of her clothes as she stepped back and waved him in.

The house was redolent with the rich aroma of simmering tomatoes, garlic, onion and herbs. Booker’s stomach rumbled. The two protein bars he’d eaten as a makeshift lunch, taking furtive bites while the librarians weren’t watching, had long since worn off.

Trailing Quỳnh down the hallway as she walked towards the room she and Andy had claimed, Booker deposited his laptop in his bedroom, then followed his nose into the kitchen. Nile greeted him distractedly, focused on the cards in her hand, while Joe, who sat opposite her, pointedly ignored Booker as he placed one of his own cards on the table.

Nicky was standing by the stove, wooden spoon in hand, stirring with regular, economical motions. “Hello, Booker.” His expression was as inscrutable as always.

Booker smiled, some of his earlier good mood restored at the memory of Nicky’s incandescent rage the previous evening, when Booker’s latest prank had resulted in a sleepwalking Nicky shoving a fireplace poker into Joe’s torso. “Nicky, that smells delicious.”

“Grazie,” Nicky replied placidly. He switched his attention to Joe, “Would you set the table, my love? Dinner is nearly ready.”

“Of course, habibi.” Joe immediately started packing up the game, brushing past Nile’s protest—“Hey, I actually had a decent hand this time!”—and going to the cupboard to retrieve plates and cups. He didn’t so much as glance at Booker, who couldn’t resist nudging him by swooping in to pull handfuls of knives and forks out of the cutlery drawer as soon as Joe opened it.

“Here you go!” he said cheerfully, holding them out in Joe’s direction, enjoying the grumpy twist of Joe’s mouth that this action provoked. Unable to resist the urge to continue his prodding, Booker asked, “How’s the side today?”

“You know what…!” Joe cut himself off, eyes snapping fire as he snatched the cutlery from Booker’s outstretched hands and walked away to drop everything with a clatter on the table, waves of fury radiating off him. Andy and Quỳnh came through the door just then, glancing between Booker and Joe as they retrieved drinks for everyone and seated themselves at the table. 

“I’m sorry!” Booker hastened to say. Joe turned partway back around, forehead creasing as he gauged the sincerity of Booker’s apology. Booker waited a long moment for maximum effect. Then, just as Joe’s eyes started to soften, he added, “I don’t mean to _poke_ at sore wounds.”

Familiarity with Joe’s quick reaction time meant that Booker just managed to catch the knife Joe seized from the table and flung directly at his head. His laughter echoed through the house as he scurried out of the kitchen, choosing self-preservation over the grumbling of his stomach. Joe’s shouted curses followed him down the hallway, Nicky’s deeper voice uttering calming words audible in the pauses when Joe stopped to breathe.

Entering his bedroom, Booker propped the back of a chair under the doorhandle just in case Joe decided verbal assaults—and the single dinner knife—were an insufficient means of revenge.

Flipping open his duffel bag, he extracted a half-full packet of Oreos. Propping himself up against the wall at the head of the bed and munching away on the chocolatey goodness, Booker thumbed through his well-worn copy of _The Counterfeiters_ , settling in for a quiet evening in his own company.

He didn’t see the sheen of a dull, gold lid twinkling subtly in the depths of his bag.

*** 

There were moments in life that called for a calm, rational approach. At other times, a swift retaliation was in order. Once Joe had stopped shouting after Booker’s retreating form and calmed down enough to listen, Nicky shared his plan.

Quỳnh laughed, a sharp whip of sound that conveyed her approval. Andy smiled too. “Idiots,” she said fondly, even as she stood to retrieve two enormous coffee mugs, one emblazed with scrolling font saying, “Pro Tits, Anti Nazis”; the other, “I Could Be A Morning Person, If Morning Happened Around Noon.” Nile scanned each of their faces in turn, looking like she couldn’t believe they had a combined total of over ten thousand years in age, yet _she_ was the most mature one in the group. Joe had been frankly delighted at Nicky’s sheer deviousness.

To fulfil his supporting role in the revenge plot, Joe had eaten lightly, aware that even a single bite too much of Nicky’s delicious cooking could drop him into a carb coma without warning. He had consumed an obscene amount of coffee, matching Andy cup for cup across the dinner table in a truly heroic effort that saw bright sparkles of colour edging into his peripheral vision. He was wearing his tightest, least comfortable pair of jeans—the ones he normally reserved for when he and Nicky went dancing—and no socks despite his feet now feeling like they were encased in blocks of ice. He had intentionally _not_ done anything when Nicky carefully tucked his favourite pistol under their pillow. He was more awake than he’d ever been in his life.

At present, he was wrapped around Nicky in their usual sleeping position. Nicky had kissed him and said, “Good night, my love,” then bent a truly wicked grin in Joe’s direction before turning so his back was pressed firmly against Joe’s front, trapping Joe’s arm against his chest and threading their fingers together as he settled down. Silence had reigned for a few moments before Nicky let out a low whine of displeasure. Joe had obligingly tucked his nose into the back of Nicky’s neck, smiling into the soft skin there as Nicky sighed happily and dozed off, unfazed by the vibrating ball of caffeine-fuelled adrenaline that was braced at his back.

An hour passed. Nicky started twitching minutely as he approached a REM cycle. Joe’s caffeine high was slowly being subsumed by his healing factor, but the small movements of the man in front of him were sufficient to pump a new trickle of adrenaline through his veins. He was ready.

All of a sudden, Nicky’s body stilled completely. Joe watched, fascinated, as Nicky began to worm his way out of Joe’s lax embrace. He’d never been awake to witness this part of the process before. First, Nicky inched his lower half forward, shuffling slowly until Joe’s right leg slipped down from its position atop Nicky’s, landing softly on the mattress behind them. Then he peeled himself away from Joe’s upper body in a sinuous move that saw him in position to catch Joe’s arm where it had previously been laid across Nicky’s shoulder. Next, he placed a spare pillow in Joe’s arms, occupying the warm space Nicky had taken up before extracting himself. Finally, Nicky reached under the pillow and extracted the pistol so stealthily that Joe couldn’t feel it happening, despite being wide awake and lying with his head on top of said pillow.

Climbing off the bed, Nicky levelled the pistol in front of him, holding it with both hands as he walked across the floor. His feet dragged just a tiny bit and his aim was ever-so-slightly off centre as he swung the door open and proceeded into the hallway, sleeve brushing against the doorframe. Joe hurried to get out of bed and follow his wayward sleepwalker.

Nicky in the lead, footsteps just audible, Joe shadowing him much more quietly, they didn’t have far to go before Nicky stopped, his large nose raised in the air, pointing like a hound at the source of the disturbance. Joe looked on as Nicky tried the doorknob. Upon finding it locked, Nicky stepped back and let fly with the heel of his foot, busting the door open in one swift kick.

“Quoi?” Booker’s voice was disoriented, although he was on his feet with his own pistol in hand. The detritus of a now-empty container of Oreos was scattered on the bed next to his abandoned novel. The overhead light was still on. “Ugh, Nicky, what are you doing?” 

Nicky failed to acknowledge anything Booker was saying, instead orienting himself towards the corner of the room containing Booker’s duffle bag. The cover trailing off the corner of the bed tangled around his foot momentarily, but Nicky recovered his balance after only a slight stumble. Extending the same foot to flick open the bag, while holding the rest of his body as far distant as was possible, Nicky immediately stepped back and aimed his pistol.

Joe came to lean against the doorframe, drawing Booker’s attention. “Joe?” Booker’s forehead creased in confusion then suddenly cleared as he held out his hands in a peace-making gesture that came far too little, far too late. “Wait.”

At the sound of Joe’s name, Nicky began to speak. “Joe. My heart. I have found it. The intruder. Do not worry, I will keep you safe.” His voice took on a sinister growl, speech now directed at the bag, “I have you cornered. Do not think to threaten my family. You son of a bitch.”

“No, Nicky, stop!” Booker’s shout was overridden by the sharp crack of bullets exiting Nicky’s gun. Pulverised fragments of glass, red sauce and black-and-white cookies went flying in a cornucopia of chaos. As the last shards of glass tinkled gently against the floor, settling against some shredded paper and a bullet-riddled boot lying on its side, Joe started to snicker. Catching the stunned look on Booker’s face, his snickers turned into guffaws, and Joe had to prop himself up against the doorframe to avoid sliding down onto the floor.

*** 

Booker stood in the middle of his bedroom, utterly shell-shocked. A small trickle of something wet and viscous wended its way down from his forehead, bumping over the ridge of his eyebrow, trailing along the side of his nose and descending to drip off his chin. He was intimately familiar with the slippery feel of blood—his own and others’—sliding across his skin, but in comparison with that texture, the thick, sluggish ooze of this substance was somehow…wrong.

A shudder ripped through him and he hastened to wipe it off his face, turning simultaneously to look at Nicky. The clear green gaze that met his own assured Booker than Nicky was now fully awake. He went to speak, found his voice gone. Cleared his throat. “Nicky,” he managed to get out. “Nicky. I…I understand now.”

Nicky reached up to lay a hand on Booker’s shoulder. “At last. I am so glad to hear it,” he said, and opened his arms to envelop Booker in a hug as the taller man broke down, weeping into Nicky’s sauce-and-crumb-covered shirt.

*** 

The next time he and Nicky went shopping together, Booker hurried his footsteps as they passed the haunting display of jars stacked neatly on the supermarket shelf. Nicky looked on approvingly and even forewent any verbal protests when Booker collected his usual armful of Oreos packets to place in the shopping trolley.

Distracted by his feeling of self-righteousness at having initiated Booker’s reform from the Prego lifestyle, Nicky didn’t notice the can emblazoned with an image of a grey-haired, moustachioed man wearing a white chef’s hat that Booker tucked oh-so-carefully under the verdant leaves of a silverbeet.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [the tumbls](https://boutiquetraveltravelboutique.tumblr.com/) most every day, at random intervals anywhere between 1am and 9pm cos sleep and me are not best buds. I’d suggest you brace yourself before clicking—but if you’ve read any of the many, M A N Y comments I’ve written on my own and other people’s fics, you’ve probably already got a good idea of the carefully curated balance of 24/7 thirstposting, obscenity screaming and tag rambling that is my Tumbl-blog ✌🏻


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